zeemelo

[zeemelo]

Something Worse

[zeemelo]

Body made of sand,

My hands, a desperate hug.

I lose every grain.

[zeemelo]

Mourning the Living

We sit at the new coffee shop I said I've been meaning to try out (I lied) My drink is bitter (Nothing to do with the taste) And you give me an empty smile Saying nothing new, Laughing nervously, "Same old, same old" (You lied, kind of— Stings anyway) And we both look anywhere But each other's eyes, stumbling Because we forgot how to read us, Because if we look, truly, We might remember too much Too genuinely, When we existed without pretense, When we talked freely into the night— And so we stay as long as is polite to, I offer to pay and you thank me (I feel guilty, somewhat) We hug without really touching, I say to text me when you get home And you don't And I stare at last year's birthday message, So much easier than saying "I love you, I used to love you, I remember you fondly— I want to."

[zeemelo]

Flash Poetry Flash Cards

[zeemelo]

Lies in Threes

Lies sit silk-smooth on that otherwise Sharp tongue of yours, That's how I could tell them apart— That, and your unsmiling eyes That reminded me of a murky puddle But glinted with superiority When trickery was involved.

I remembered a lesson: You must let a liar believe He is a good liar, That you are easy to lie to. And I did.

You told me, scoffing, That my stuttering lies Were always utterly unconvincing, Saying I lied in threes: How are you? Good, good, good. Do you mind? No, no, no.

I learned a new lesson: You must let a liar believe That you are a bad liar, That you are good and simple. And I did.

[zeemelo]

Good Liar

You said he was a good liar And I stopped you And said, feeling strongly (The way children do about their morals) That no liar is good. You laughed at me, Saying that's not what it means; That he's good at lying; You laughed at my weak grasp Of your language And I stared, hard, but quiet (The way chastised children are) Wondering if only I see the dangers Left in ambiguity.

[zeemelo]

Lying

You lied, all the time, And I'm not sure if I knew. You told me you knew death, The way you said it, knew, Made it sound so intimate And so I asked you, Because I was always scared, If it hurt to die. And you shrugged, shrugged, And told me pain is a choice. "A choice?" Did I sound hopeful? But your wolf smile crept in (The one that prickled my skin, That made me think, somewhere, He lies he lies he lies Before I convinced myself otherwise) And you told me pain is a choice, Just not one I get to make. And didn't understand And you smiled And I didn't understand.

[zeemelo]

I am not normal about them

“Care to dance?”

“We already do.”

[zeemelo]

Turbulence

I crave a kind of stillness That is stifling, I find my peace In the kind of quietude That is deafening. I've been molded Creating patterns out of noise, Disciplined myself into being As silent as sunlight, As soft and still As moss on a stone. I disciplined myself into being.

[zeemelo]

Nicotine and Grapes

Nicotine and grapes, That was the smell of summer. The tip of a cigarette at night Looked like a firefly in the distance But instead of buzzing There was laughter, Flowing with the alcohol and music— And for the children, up late, Sweat drying in the breeze, Feet slapping the cold tiles; There were adventures to be had, Knees to be scraped, The pain and play and feelings So presently stuck then— Without taking the time to notice The smell that plagues my nose, Of nicotine and grapes Of summers way back when.

[zeemelo]

This poet speaks corporate, This poet sold their soul At half price. Discounted rate For the highest bidder!

Yet, This poet still lives, somehow This poet still lives, somewhat.

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I always think I can't have you as often As I do not, I love too fully, Too foolishly. You may think me selfish But I don't want to compromise, I want your heart to break as mine At the mere thought of being away— That, or not at all.

Yet, I do have you As often as I do not, And I cherish every moment.

Persephone's curse, Hades' endurance.

[zeemelo]

Your Environment (Library)

The library was shelter for more than the overcast weather that promised rain.

In it, hundreds of small journeys were happening all at once. A tired college student tapped his laptop keys aggressively, pausing only to fidget with his sweater. An older lady calmly flipped through pages of a yellowed book, with gestures that indicated great familiarity. A mother herded her two children, who were too excited to follow the norms of silence, but nobody minded.

And in front of me, sat a young woman, with curly hair and an artistic demeanor. She concentrated heavily on something I could not see, gripping a pen with spidery hands, jotting notes with surprisingly bubbly handwriting.

A librarian passed by me, locking eyes. I smiled at her, taking strange pleasure in knowing she knows this place better than I do. As I glanced curiously at every shelf and every faded chalk sign, her body seemed to walk faster than her mind, hands working efficiently through the broad corridors, seemingly invisible to other passerby. In her element, I thought, wondering what she looked like in different environments, thinking if I managed to look that capable anywhere.

As the rain started to fall, pitter-pattering the large glass windows, I settled in, ready to forget time for a while.

In this shelter for more than just the weather, there are hundreds of small journeys happening all at once— and thousands of worlds to visit in between pages.

[zeemelo]

Dragon

In a time before time, there was a Dragon.

The Dragon did not know, of course, it was the last of its kind. It did not know it would soon perish, it did not know the legacy it failed to establish.

The Dragon did know that its ancient bones felt comfortable, wrapped around itself, finally rested. It did know its hot breath expanded gently within its ribcage, slowing, but not yet ceasing. It did know its tired eyes felt right, semi-closed, softly gazing at nothing at all.

Beyond itself, the Dragon, who did not know many things, knew the land. Had known the land for centuries, had shaped its topography around itself. The Dragon knew no malice, but knew softness when felt, knew hunger by eating. It consumed the land’s birds with the same pleasure it listened to its songs. And in turn, the birds fled it with the same intensity they huddled around its warm core.

And as the Dragon faded away, it cared not for the birds or land or even its body, for the Dragon did not know death, and it did not fear what it did not know. For this death, the Death of the last Dragon, felt comfortable and natural, like falling asleep at the end of a lullaby, or ending a long sentence with a sigh.

[zeemelo]

Creative Energy

I hadn’t, before then, thought much about the why of specific artworks of mine. I usually paint something because I get the urge to, and painting itself is the process of thinking through – I don’t sit down to express a fully thought-out emotion or insight, it happens organically through it, and the thoughts don’t stop evolving once it is done; I might rethink and reinterpret them forever, every time I glance at it.

Read the full post here.

[zeemelo]

Canker Sores

A ticking clock, A beating heart, An unshakeable Sense of wastefulness. Nails are chipped, Teeth are sharp, An unchangeable Feeling of forgetfulness. Taste of metal, Fight or flight, An ungrateful Tired-eye night to witness.

[zeemelo]

<3

The Angel was tied With golden shackles And convinced himself There was honor In the way it glistened.